Classic Poem

To Lydia.

( Lydia ) so mote I thee thou art not faire,
A plaine brownetta when thou art at best:
Yet darst not thou come forth into the ayre,
When no wind stirres, and Sunne's hid in the west,
But mask'd forsooth, I prethy what's thy reason,
That hauing (God he knowes) no faire to loose,
Thou hid'st that pitteous None so out of season?
Oh th'art a mummer, and perhaps dost choose,
A faire calme euen as fittest for thy gaine:
Sayest thou me so? nay, then we'le haue about,
Come, trip the dice, haue at your box ( Madame )
Ile cast at all, for sure I goe not out.
Nothing but mum? nay then we are agreed,
Be I well chanc'd, my chance may be to speed.